


And at night, the invisible worm flies

by hypnagogia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Consensual Infidelity, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29694501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnagogia/pseuds/hypnagogia
Summary: The triquetra of things responsible for the start of their annual affair:Item #1: The break up of his engagement to Draco. Awful as the whole thing was, it only takes about an eighth of the blame pie.Item #2: Alcohol, his go-to solution for every real-life problem he’s ever faced. This, despite being the start of his fame within the small circle of staffs at the nearest liquor store and may or may not be the main reason behind his choppy recallings of that night, also takes no more than a quarter of the pie.Item #3: Himself. No further explanation needed.The last item, ultimately, is the one feasting on the biggest cut of the pie.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	And at night, the invisible worm flies

**Author's Note:**

> smut betaed by hill-dude. you know who you are.  
> accompanying playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/33Jw2uT9PbVZ2Jb9XhiL3o?si=SCBkivqXRMyB0gFa305BVA); i suggest listening to it while reading for more ~~immersion~~. enjoy!

‘To be completely honest, I did not expect you to call this year,’ says the man behind the door in lieu of a greeting. Harry steps to the side to let him in and hang his coat on the rack beside the door, and the man does it with the nonchalance of someone who lives in the house. 

As he closes the door, Harry sighs to himself and admits—in his head, because he knows not to inflate an ego that’s already gigantic: Tom looks good.

The shirt he’s wearing is in the colour of dried blood; deep red, complimenting the black of his coat and the dark grey of his slacks just right. Harry, on the other hand, is dressed in his idea of perfect pyjamas: last night’s ratty t-shirt and an equally tattered pair of sweatpants. Both choices of attire come naturally to their respective wearer in the same way as Tom’s artful curls come as effortless as Harry’s unruly hair, and that is the only similarity they share in the grounds of appearance.

Tom looks at him, aware that he’s being appraised, and offers a sardonic smile in return. Harry meets his stare for a second before cocking his head slightly, beckoning Tom to follow him without saying anything. In the periphery of his vision, he sees the aforementioned coat; the same Belstaff Tom had worn since they graduated, the one he gave him as his graduation gift, hanging on the coat rack they had bought together when they moved in years ago. It's almost as if he was just coming back from one of his mysterious meetings, ready to fling himself into bed without any form of nightcap. 

Almost. 

Old memories bring themselves to the forefront of Harry’s mind, played in a reel like an old film, muted sepia tones turning much more vivid than he likes. He feels like he’s being choked. 

He coughs and distracts himself by listening to the sound of their footsteps echoing through the hallway, refusing to acknowledge that even the tap-tap of Tom’s feet against the floorboards sound like they _belong_. No part of tonight will be spent reminiscing the past while nursing his favoured bottle of Grey Goose. That’s scheduled for tomorrow, first thing in the morning.

‘How is Ginevra?’ comes Tom’s voice after a long stretch of silence, marking their arrival at the kitchen. Harry finds his mind circling back to Tom’s earlier words. 

He holds himself from saying the first thing on his mind—the truth: that while he _did_ expect himself to call, he did not plan on telling Tom to come this year or any year after, that this has got to _stop and lie down with a huge elephant on top_ , but then he heard Tom’s voice on the phone and _the words just won’t come out_ —by focusing on the casual query on Ginny’s wellbeing. He snorts.

It’s a running gag at this point, the _‘how is your last known partner’_ question. 

Like a cinematic irony cliché, Harry would break up with the lover he somehow manages to keep on the 13th of February. He’d meet them at a cafe, fumble with his words, then get a slap or two (or a punch or two, depending on his partner’s brand of instinctual fight response) and a tearful monologue of how they’ve _always known that Harry never cared,_ that they _thought he was going to propose_ for fuck’s sake _,_ that they _had spent hours of trying to look good only to be dumped over lukewarm tea_. If he’s particularly unlucky, he’d go home in wet clothes and in dire need of a hair wash, courtesy of the amount of sugar they take with their cuppa. He never told Tom any of this, of course, but he suspects the man knows anyway.

It’s hard not to laugh at that after 5 years of repeat performances. He really should get himself a medal for managing not to.

(Ginny is the only exception to the whole mess. Instead of waiting until their expiration date, she went up to him at her family’s New Year party and asked if she could join them for a threesome. He didn't need to ask her _how she knew_ , because Ron has always been a brother before a best friend, and _he knows_. He told her that Tom isn’t the type to share—and it’s _true_ , even if it's not exactly his main concern; the real reason is that _he_ doesn’t want to share Tom, not in the only way he can have him for himself. She shrugged and wandered off to dance with Luna without bothering to kick his crotch or dump her drinks all over him. Ron only hit him on his nose once and went to get him some ice right after. All in all, it was a good night.)

‘She’s good, I’d reckon. At least according to her Instagram stories. Luna is taking her to Disneyland. They promised to send me a postcard.’

Tom blinks. Harry pulls his chair for him before striding to the kitchen counter, convincing himself that it’s merely a trick of the light play, not wanting to look more into it. He doesn’t want to know what lurks behind that blink; if it’s a mere surprise or a barely disguised pity.

‘And to think that I expected a threesome,’ he hears Tom murmurs, taking his seat. He thinks about Ginny’s proposal and wonders if he should’ve accepted it.

‘Well, too bad,’ he chuckles wryly. ‘Do I have to pack the curry for you to bring home instead?’

He delivers the question like he does a joke, but it isn't one, not really. There are two containers stacked in his fridge, ready to be given out under the guise of leftovers. One contains the curry, the other the naan—both he had made from scratch. He knows that the rightful missus hates it; the smell, the taste, the glaring reminder of his existence in Tom’s life (because she, too, _knows_ ). Perhaps it’s exactly why he prepared them. 

He’s not willing to admit it yet, but it gives him a dirty sort of pleasure, to exist in Tom’s perfectly-tailored world, if only for two more days and in the form of ‘leftovers’ and chipped tupperwares. 

‘No, it’s okay. I’ve never been good at sharing, after all.’

‘You’ve always been a selfish person,’ Harry agrees. He wonders how selfishit makes him, begging for a chance of _this_ every year despite knowing that the other man is already spoken for.

He chooses not to dwell on it. Instead, he asks, ‘Rice or naan?’ even when he knows what the answer would be.

‘Rice, thank you.’

* * *

The triquetra of things responsible for the start of their annual affair:

Item #1: The break up of his engagement to Draco, a not so clean split from a relationship that was rocky at best and mutually destructive at worst. They had always known that they were bound to crash and burn, but they jumped the proverbial wagon and hit its proverbial gas anyway; one eager to run away from unrequited love and the other from the unyielding burden of parental expectations. Harry can barely remember what spurred _it_ , their last fight, but he remembers Draco’s last words to him like it was said just a few hours ago ( _‘Is it really hard, Harry, to look at me in the eyes and tell me that you love me for_ once? _Is it because my eyes are grey instead of dark brown? Is it because I am me and not Tom bloody Riddle?’_ ) and not _a few hours and five years ago_. Awful as the whole thing was, it only takes about an eighth of the blame pie.

Item #2: Alcohol, his go-to solution for every real-life problem he’s ever faced. He wasn’t exceptionally fond of the drink back then, finding neither the taste nor the burn it leaves in his throat anywhere near satisfying, 1/10, not recommended, but he just got out of a two-year relationship and the throbbing ache needs to be numbed, goddamnit, so numb it he did. This, despite being the start of his fame within the small circle of staffs at the nearest liquor store and may or may not be the main reason behind his choppy recallings of that night, also takes no more than a quarter of the pie.

Item #3: Himself. No further explanation is needed for this item, because it was the one crying over a phone call to _Tom_ , of all people, begging him to come over and commiserate with him. He doesn’t remember much of that night (refer to item #2), but he does remember that Tom indulges him in all the worldly vice available to them at the moment (alcohol, the tube of choc mint ice cream Tom brought with him, the packet of weed long forgotten in his closet). He remembers them getting high as kites, remembers hating how unruffled Tom seemed to be even after getting to the bottoms of Captain Morgans and Smirnoffs when he himself felt thoroughly conked. He doesn’t remember who started it, but he does remember making out with Tom, which somehow turned into _having sex_ with Tom. He remembers himself afterwards, floating on post-coital bliss, saying, _‘We should spend Valentine’s day like this every year. You, me, alcohol, ice cream, weed. No other men, no other women. Just us against the world.’_ He remembers Tom saying _yes_. 

The last item, ultimately, is the one feasting on the biggest cut of the pie.

* * *

‘Wine?’ Harry offers once he reaches the room, going to the liquor cabinet straight away. He pours whisky for himself and gulps it in one go.

Dinner was an oxymoron of an event, in a way that it was both a silent and loud affair. 

Silent, because both of them were never fond of talks over food. It’s a habit they picked from the orphanage—meals are to be savoured, thoroughly relished, for one could never tell the size of the ration the next day; if there was any to be rationed at all.

And it was this very silence that makes everything piercing loud for Harry’s senses: the sound of their cutleries hitting ceramic plates; the quiet appreciative hum Tom elicited on his first spoon; the bob of his Adam’s apple as he took a swig of water; the way he licked the spoon clean; the way he never let go of their eye contact throughout the ordeal, pinning Harry down with his gaze.

He let all of them engulf him, cocooning him the intoxicating feel of being wanted, of being the centre of Tom’s focus, a vice he only allows himself for a few hours each year. He let them, despite knowing full well that he will feel the chill of withdrawal to his bones come morning.

Still, he told Tom to go make himself comfortable in his study—which used to be _their_ study—when the man latched himself on his back, an offer of help in cleaning the dishes whispered to his ear. Every addict knows better than to ever knock themself out in one absinthe shot, and Harry is no novice in the world of addiction.

The ghost of Tom’s breath stayed warm on his neck as he works through each utensil. It’s a shame, really, that this is the one addiction he can't overdose from.

‘Still an alcoholic?’ Tom asks instead of answering. He’s sitting comfortably on the settee, head leaning on the backrest, eyes shut for a moment before looking straight at Harry. Harry stares back at the raised left eyebrow and the faint curl of dry amusement on the left edge of his mouth as his hand reaches for the only Syrah in the cabinet.

Syrah—or any type of wine, really—has never been his type of poison. Too tart, not enough burn. Despite years of dropping aggressive hints, his colleagues (because that’s what they are, colleagues; never befriend a copper, _especially_ the higher-rank ones, unless you know them from way before they’re one) never stopped gifting him bottles of them. Coincidentally, they also have to order a new filing cabinet every three years to store files of cases that went cold within the period. Harry, like the good detective he is, knows full well that correlation does not equal causation, but the pattern is certainly there. 

(Curiously, that does not seem to be the case in their ability to identify the bottles of alcohol they had given away. He learned not to regift them after nearly getting caught red-handed doing so. Nowadays, he’d pour the liquid down the drain at the end of the year, all save for one bottle of Syrah. Because as much as Harry isn’t a wine man, Tom is.)

(And if its colour reminds him too much of Tom’s eyes, well, that’s between him and the wine.)

‘Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic,’ he says. _It’s hard not to be one when I can’t sleep otherwise_ , he adds in his head. He jiggles the bottle lightly in his hand. ‘Wine?’

‘Would be lovely, thank you,’ Tom replies. He looks pointedly at the ceramic pipe on the table, already filled with the exact dose of weed they’d inhale, down to the milligram. He picks it up, squinting slightly at its brim. ‘The usual?’

Harry hands Tom the stemmed glass. ‘It’s getting hard to track his movement, but yes,’ he says. Tracking the movements of their supplier _is_ hard, even with all the power he has as a DI. It’s the one corrupt behaviour he allows himself to do. If he's ever caught for illegal marijuana possession, let it be with the good stuff _._ And then, because Tom is the nicotine junkie between them, he asks, ‘Did you bring the lighter?’

Tom sniffs the wine, swirling it around before taking a sip; the only kind of snobbery Harry allows him to do without threatening to kick him out of the house. He puts the glass on the table. ‘Of course,’ he says, pulling out the item in question from his pocket. ‘What kind of smoker do you think I am?’

‘The kind that put out a smoking ban—’

‘On public areas, _and_ built several designated smoking area across the country, on top of encouraging the production of nicotine patches to promote quitting cigarettes altogether, mind you.’

Harry scoffs as sits beside Tom. ‘Spoken like a true politician. “To promote quitting cigarettes altogether”, my arse. As if it’s not done so you can get away with putting two on each of your arms.’

‘Two birds, one stone,’ Tom smirks, taking a puff from the bowl. ‘I _am_ a true politician. And if you don’t vote for me come May, I can say that there’s a fairly good chance of Umbridge insisting to have you as her guard. Now come here.’

Harry rolls his eyes and flips him the bird.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for them to get high—for Tom’s lips to move beyond passing on the smoke to Harry’s mouth. 

Their pipe lies forgotten on the table, its content has long since turned into ashes. Tom sucks on Harry’s lower lip, nibbling gently, and Harry’s tongue darts out hesitantly. He thinks can taste the traces of wine in Tom's lips: sour-sweet with light bitterness. 

Clothes are discarded slowly, unrushed despite their urgency. As he peels each layer, Harry stares at Tom’s body, committing every inch of it into his memory as his hands roam, re-mapping every nook and cranny with single-minded focus. Tom responds in kind—not a single inch of Harry’s skin is left unexplored, his mouth devoted in its worship. 

Not a single word is uttered between them. Every move comes easy as breathing. They know exactly where to touch the other, when to pull close and when to cradle loose. There’s nothing needed to be said, not a thing to be asked because they _know_.

Like this, it’s easier for Harry to keep the violent flashes of reality at bay; easier for him to make-believe that _this_ is real, that they are real. 

Once they’re finally naked, their mouths meet in another kiss; hunger much more evident in its fervour this time. They latch onto each other, Tom’s arms finding their way to Harry’s waist as Harry’s hands cling to his neck. Their teeth click as Harry tilts his head slightly to deepen their kiss. None of them lets each other go as they stumble through the staircase leading to the bedroom, other than to twist the doorknob. Tom backs Harry straight to bed, pinning him down underneath his body.

There is nothing between them but the sound of their harsh breath. Their eyes meet. There’s something about the glint in Tom’s eyes, fiery and all-consuming, and Harry feels both light-headed and at ease at the same time, like his ears are being filled with cotton before someone pulls him slowly underwater. 

Somehow, he finds that he doesn’t mind.

This, right here, is his sanctuary: the one moment he keeps crystallised in his mind, never to be revisited but never left unguarded.

When Tom’s teeth glide across his collarbone, Harry closes his eyes and lets himself drown.

* * *

Parts of their arrangement have changed over the years. A tube full of choc mint ice cream has turned into plates of Indian curry, Captain Morgans and Smirnoffs into Glenfiddich and Syrah. Some other parts, like how Tom would silently walk to the bathroom and retrieve a wet towel to clean both of them before he lets himself out, don’t. Harry doesn’t mind much, usually, content to lull himself into a dreamless sleep rather than staying up and wallow in self-pity.

But just like how he wasn’t going to phone Tom yesterday, there’s something about tonight that nags on him, urging him to just _say_ the words he has always wanted to say, but there’s just too much of them—they’ve taken a lot of space on a certain corner his mind, piled up like dirty socks he had kicked into the void underneath his bed, tangled together like the vines on the walls at Wool’s, impossible to pick one apart from the other.

In the end, he settles with a short ‘Stay.’ He expects no answer, but he wants to see if there will be any—if it is noticed at all. Desperately, he tries to hang on his consciousness; on the pleasant tingles all over his body, on the warmth of the body entwined with his, on the solid sense of belonging emanating from the chin tucked against his head, from the firm chest he leans his forehead against. If he can’t have what he asked for, then he’ll have just this: the chance to say _something_ , another crystallised moment to keep. ‘Just a little longer. Please.’

For a long moment, he feels nothing but Tom’s fingers carding on his hair. He supposes that's an answer enough.

He sinks further into Tom’s arm, shutting his eyes, letting go of his last hold on wakefulness. Soon, the body sharing its warmth with his will no longer be there. He doesn’t want to be awake for it.

He falls asleep to a long sigh and a low murmur against his ear he can not make out. It sounds a lot like ‘sure’ and ‘sorry’ at the same time.

**Author's Note:**

> i will never attempt to write smut ever again
> 
> this was originally written for the anti valentine fest. alas, i overestimated my ability to write smut and not overcomplicate things, so here we are, 20 days late to its submission date. title is taken from william blake's 'the sick rose'. 
> 
> next chapter might make you hate me snjdbdfhbsib but anyways. hope you like it!
> 
> p.s.: i'm rly bad at managing multiple accounts but feel free to shout at me on [tumblr](https://hypnagogue.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
